


Blue

by wowiemeowie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:29:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowiemeowie/pseuds/wowiemeowie
Summary: I had a dream about these two and felt compelled to write this little one shot. And I regret nothing.





	Blue

Blue. Almost everything about her very being is that color. Her skin, her suit, her blank expression. Beautiful and cold and blue.

Junkrat can’t help but gawk at her as she arcs through the air above him over the disheveled and cracked street -- the aftermath of his and Roadie’s masterful plan to blow up the SWAT squad -- swinging on a grappling hook towards the police line like one of those long-gone spider heroes in the comics he’d find dumpster diving as a kid. Bloody hell, she’s even got a suit like a hero -- and at that thought, his face falls. A hero. A  _ suit _ .

Damn fuckin suits.

For a moment, he despises her. He despises her despite the way she swings through the air with perfect form, despite the way her inky ponytail whips in the air like a great big ribbon, despite the way she looks down at him in her blank way and it makes his bloody heart beat so fast he swears it will explode out of his thin, bony chest.

He watches her shoulder her rifle. He tracks her trajectory towards the police line, and he waits for her to turn, to swing around towards him and Roadie while slipping a mine under his foot and pegleg and hovering his thumb on the detonator. 

Without turning, she unloads an entire clip straight into the police line, downing 7 off the bat and causing the formation to scatter. 

_ Fair suck of the sav.  _ Junkrat cannot help the childlish, wide Christmas morning grin that spreads onto his face as he watches the officers flee, yammering and yelling. Talon. That absolute corker of a woman is part of the tall poppy terrorist group he and Roadie were paid an exorbitant amount to help. She's gotta be.

Fire opens up from beyond the police barricade. It is focused on her as she continues -- wait. Shit. The sheila’s a sitting duck up there in the open air. He stares as she attempts to weave through then, zigzagging on her hook. Even with his cataracts he can see the impact of several hit her her arms and legs, and he grips his head with his free hand in horror. Blue has made a blue. A bloody bad one at that. 

The sounds of shotgun and uzi fire are only on his periphery as he watches the cable of her grappling hook snap, releasing her into a free fall.

His thumb presses the detonator.

Junkrat is immediately launched about 20 meters up and diagonal, flying towards her. Before he can even stop himself -- because what the bloody hell is he thinking, sticking his remaining arm and leg out for a stranger -- he drops another mine and smashes the detonator again, soaring up and forward, arms outstretched.

“I gotcha--!”

The air is knocked out of him as he wraps his arms around her, fumbling for some semblance of a bridal style carry but coming no where close. He may as well exploded himself head on into the wall of mass that is Hog's stomach. Aren’t dancers supposed to be light and graceful like a bird? But regardless of his unsure hands and his breathless lungs, his grip on her is like a vice. He ain’t about to drop her now that he’s snatched her out of the air like a professional gridiron player. 

The woman's head whips towards him. Their eyes meet. And damn if it isn’t like the whole world stops for a hot tic. Her eyes aren't blue, but a yellow green. Lemon lime, big and wide as they stare at him in momentary confusion. And then they look past him.

_ Crunch. _

His back arcs as hits something hard and metal -- a police car. He can’t even yelp; there is no air for him to produce sound with, not after both hitting the car and her landing on top of him. He can’t move.

Blue, however, seems to get up as if nothing happened. He can see the bullet holes in her thigh, her shoulders, but she doesn’t seem to notice them at all. She just stares down at him blankly, feet planted on either side of his battered body.   
  
“Get up. We have not completed our task yet.”   
  
And she jumps off the top of the car, rifle in hand, running towards the police line and towards the Talon reinforcements ambushing the authorities from both sides. And he watches her go. 

After about 30 seconds of failed attempts to get up and follow after her, he is roughly peeled from the roof of the vehicle by Roadie and slung over his shoulder.

Blue and cold and beautiful, he thinks. What a corker of a woman.


End file.
